Vienna Secrets (19 page)

47

A
NNA
K
ATZER AND
O
LGA
M
andl
stepped down from the carriage on Burggasse and walked arm in arm up the cobbled incline of an adjoining street. The houses they passed were dilapidated, and the air smelled vaguely of refuse. From somewhere beyond the end of the street a bugle sounded, establishing the proximity of the barracks. They arrived at their destination, a decrepit hovel, and paused to examine the filthy exterior. Pieces of stucco had fallen off the façade, revealing the underlying brickwork, and the windows were streaked with bird droppings.

A door was thrown open on the opposite side of the road, and a plump red-faced woman stepped out. She frowned at the two well-dressed young women and proceeded to shake some bed linen.

Anna lifted the cast-iron knocker and rapped loudly. Nothing stirred in the house, so she tried again.

“Excuse me,” Anna called over to the red-faced woman. “Do you know if Herr Sachs is in?”

The red-faced woman shrugged and continued with her work. Anna turned and struck the door with her fist.

“Herr Sachs, are you in? Herr Sachs?” She tilted her head and addressed her companion. “Did you hear something?”

“Yes,” said Olga, “I think I did.”

“Herr Sachs? Open the door!”

They waited, and their patience was rewarded by the hollow thump of footsteps descending wooden stairs. A bolt was drawn aside, and the door creaked open. The man standing in front of them had evidently just gotten out of bed. His hair was mussed, and he seemed slightly disorientated. He was wearing a stained dressing gown and had not bothered to put on his slippers. Anna glanced down and was repulsed by his corneous clawlike yellow toenails. On the exposed carpet of matted hair that covered his chest sat a circular pendant that contained a Star of David. He rubbed one of his half-closed eyes with a grazed knuckle and, when he had finished, blinked blearily at the two women.

“Herr Sachs?” Anna inquired.

“Who are you?” he replied, the words forming from the gravelly sounds that he made as he cleared his throat.

“My name is Anna Katzer, and this is my associate and friend Olga Mandl. Are you Herr Sachs? Jeheil Sachs?”

“What if I am?” the man said. The fogginess of sleep suddenly dissipated from his expression. He studied Anna and Olga more closely, his gaze wandering disrespectfully from head to toe, his mouth twisting into a lecherous grin. “What if I am?” he repeated, and added in a softer tone, “Ladies…”

Anna and Olga bristled simultaneously.

“It is our understanding,” said Olga, “that you are acquainted with a Galician woman named Kadia Pinski.” Sachs stiffened. “Well?” Olga persisted. “Is it true?”

Sachs nodded. “Yes, I know her. Why? And where is she?”

“In the hospital,” said Anna.

Sachs’s tongue moistened his cracked lower lip.

“What is your relationship with Fräulein Pinski?”

“That’s none of your business,” Sachs snorted. Then he added in a more conciliatory tone, “All right. If you must know, I help her out a little. Financially. I’ve introduced her to a few soldiers who’ve given her a good time. Hospital, eh? What happened to her?”

“You know very well what happened to her!” said Anna, her voice brittle with anger. “What you did was despicable!”

When Sachs tried to close the door, Anna threw her weight against it, keeping it open.

“We know what you did!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Have you no conscience, no self-respect?” said Anna. “To profit from the misery and hardship of your own people.”

“You can’t prove anything,” said Sachs. “I helped the girl out, that’s all. If she’s gotten herself into some sort of trouble, it has nothing to do with me.” Sachs looked across the street at the plump woman, who had stopped doing her chores and was watching the altercation. “Hey!” he shouted, making a shooing-away gesture with his hand. “This is a private conversation!” Sachs spat onto the cobbles and swore under his breath.

“We have a doctor’s report, Herr Sachs,” said Olga.

“Good,” said the procurer. “Do you think I care? If she’s accused me of anything, then it’s my word against hers. Do you think she’s the first drunken whore to get herself into trouble and make up a story?”

“Justice will be done, Herr Sachs,” said Anna. “Believe me. We will see to it that justice is done.”

Sachs suddenly lost his temper.

“Go away! The pair of you! Meddling bitches. I’ve had enough! Go back to your fancy apartments and perfumes and fine wines, eh? I’m going back to bed!”

Sachs pushed Anna out of the way and pulled the door shut.

“Are you all right?” said Olga, placing an arm around Anna’s shoulder.

Anna didn’t notice her friend’s ministrations. She clenched her fist and banged it against the door.

“We’ll be back, Herr Sachs,” she shouted. “I promise you, we’ll be back.”

48

W
HEN
L
IEBERMANN ENTERED THE
restaurant, he saw that his father and uncle were already seated for breakfast.

“Good morning, Maxim,” said Alexander. “Did you sleep well?”

“No,” said Liebermann. “I didn’t. The room was rather hot.”

“What are you talking about, hot?” said Mendel. “It was freezing last night.”

“The young don’t feel the cold like us,” said Alexander innocently. “It doesn’t get into their bones.”

Liebermann sat down and tried to disguise a yawn.

“And what time did you get back last night?” Mendel growled at his son.

“Not too late,” Liebermann replied.

“We stopped off for a nightcap,” said Alexander. “That’s all.”

A waiter appeared with a cart.

“Coffee, sir?”

“Please,” Mendel replied. The waiter filled their cups with coffee and then served freshly baked
honzova buchta—
fruit buns. When broken, they steamed slightly and exuded a sweet, wholesome smell that made Liebermann’s stomach gurgle. They tasted heavenly, combining the simple virtues of a staple food with the piquant pleasures of an indulgence. Mendel read the newspapers, and Alexander talked to his nephew about various aspects of piano technique. Liebermann recommended the Klammer Method, and turned his thumbs under his hands to demonstrate their flexibility. Given what had transpired the previous evening, it was a remarkably controlled performance, by both parties.

After breakfast, the three men headed north, to Josefov, where they met with several shop owners. Mendel’s business with them was thankfully brief, and at its conclusion he declared that they had an hour or so to spare.

“I know a splendid coffeehouse near the cemetery,” said Alexander.

“The old Jewish cemetery?” asked Liebermann.

“The proprietor’s wife makes extremely good chocolate éclairs,” Alexander continued, failing to acknowledge his nephew’s question.

Liebermann recalled the zaddik’s exhortation:
Go to the cemetery and pray for your ancestors to be merciful
.

“I’ve heard it’s very beautiful—the old cemetery,” Liebermann pressed.

“Yes, it is, if you like that sort of thing. Myself, I find it rather gloomy.”

“If we’re passing,” Liebermann continued, “could we go inside? I’d like to see it.”

Alexander looked over at his brother.

“I don’t see why not,” said Mendel. “We have the time.”

Liebermann detected suspicion in the network of creases around his father’s eyes.

“And if we’re quick,” said Alexander, “we won’t have to forgo the pleasure of Frau Ruzicka’s delightful pastries.”

The old Jewish cemetery was built on what appeared to be a small hillock and was completely surrounded by a perimeter wall.

“Are any of our family buried here?” Liebermann asked his father.

“Probably. Your great-grandfather was a Praguer—although he’s buried in the new cemetery, of course. I think they stopped burying people here more than a hundred years ago.”

“What was his occupation, my great-grandfather?”

“He was a tailor.”

“Do you remember him?”

“No. He died long before Alexander and I were born.”

They climbed up a steep path and were soon surrounded by headstones. These were of varying sizes and were packed closely together. Some were leaning over, others had fallen flat, and all were covered in Hebrew inscriptions. Nearly five hundred winters had taken their toll, rendering the older monuments illegible. The lettering had filled with moss, creating strange emerald patterns against the gray stone. Although chaotic and decayed, the necropolis possessed a sombre majesty. Even Liebermann, who was generally inured to such things, felt something akin to reverence.

Liebermann and his uncle walked along the path, leaving Mendel behind. The old man seemed to be tarrying on purpose. Glancing over his shoulder, Liebermann saw his father standing very still in the dappled shadows beneath a lime tree. He guessed that Mendel wanted to be alone in order to say a prayer.

The route that Liebermann and his uncle had chosen ascended until they were level with the first-floor windows of the buildings beyond the perimeter wall. The path took them on a meandering course that squeezed between the serried graves. Liebermann noticed that several of the dead had been honored in the traditional Jewish way: pebbles had been placed on the headstones as a mark of esteem. One of the headstones was particularly conspicuous in this respect. The tributes and folded messages of supplication were so abundant that many had fallen and scattered on the ground.

“Who is buried here?” asked Liebermann.

“Oh, I think this is the grave of Rabbi Loew. He was a holy man… and a sort of Hebrew magician. A kabbalist.”

Liebermann turned sharply to address his uncle.

“Do you know much about him?”

“Not a great deal. The local Hasidim have lots of legends about his good works. He was supposed to have performed miracles and to have protected the ghetto in times of persecution. He used to preach at the Old-New Synagogue. They still have his chair there.”

Your forefathers would have worshipped in the Old-New Synagogue
.

“Where is it?”

“The Old-New Synagogue?”

“Yes.”

“Just over there.” Alexander raised his arm and pointed. “On Maiselova.”

Mendel was approaching.

“Well,” he called out, “just enough time for a coffee, and then we must see Broz and Holub.”

“Father,” said Liebermann, “forgive me… but I’d like to see the Old-New Synagogue.”

“What?”

“Would you mind?”

Mendel came to a halt and looked somewhat puzzled. “Can’t you go later? Since when have you been interested in synagogues?”

“I would very much like to go
now,”
Liebermann answered. The tone of his voice was firm.

“You spend half the night drinking with your uncle—and don’t deny it.” Mendel lifted a finger to silence Alexander’s anticipated objection. “And then you want to go to the synagogue!” Mendel looked up at the sky as if beseeching God for assistance. “Sometimes…”

Liebermann had already started to retreat.

“I’ll see you back at the hotel, Father.”

“Why can’t you see the synagogue and catch us up at the coffeehouse? It won’t take you long.”

“No. I’d prefer to take my time, if you don’t mind. Good-bye, Father… Uncle Alexander.”

Liebermann bowed and hurried off.

Mendel turned to his brother, shaking his head.

“I don’t understand him. Do you?”

Alexander leaned both hands on his cane and replied, “No. I thought I did. But, on reflection, I realize I was quite mistaken.”

49

C
OUNCILLOR
S
CHMIDT WAS SITTING
at his preferred table in the Café Eiles. He had just finished eating a potato goulash with frankfurter sausages and had begun to study the newspapers. Leafing through the
Wiener Tagblatt
, he came across a salacious headline:
ONGOING SCANDAL SURROUNDS SCHNITZLER’S BOOK
REIGEN
.

Two months ago the Viennese publishing company released the first edition of Arthur Schnitzler’s book
Reigen
. This scandalous book harms the feeling of honor of every Viennese. The “Reigen” consist of ten dialogues about sex. After each act a partner is exchanged. There has never been such a pornographic work.

Schmidt tutted to himself and shook his head.
Jews. Obsessed with smut
. He read on:

In 1901, Arthur Schnitzler’s book
Lieutenant Gustl
also brought controversy with the public. The result was that Arthur Schnitzler was relieved of his title as an officer.

“Quite right!” Schmidt said aloud.

At an adjacent table a lawyer wearing a green bow tie looked up from his soup to see if he was being addressed.

Turning to the political pages, Schmidt came across a small piece on forthcoming appointments at the town hall. He read, with pride, that the candidates for the mayor’s special advisory committee included Councillor Julius Schmidt, “a resourceful and popular advocate of small businesses and the rights of hardworking families.”

I’m going to get the job
.

The thought sent an electric charge of excitement through his body. With Faust eliminated from the new short list, the only other serious contender was Armannperg, and Armannperg was too old. He—Julius Schmidt—would get the coveted position, cultivate support among the most elevated members of the party, and be ready to run for mayor when the time came—and surely, given Lueger’s failing health, he would not have to wait very long.

But even as he imagined himself ensconced in the mayor’s office, he was troubled by an irritating secondary consideration. Lueger’s failing health was
rumored
, not fact. There were whisperings, overheard conversations, raised eyebrows, if the mayor was not looking his best. But Schmidt had to admit that, for an ailing man, Karl Lueger was alarmingly spry and energetic. He could be mayor for some time to come. Certainly long enough for several of the ambitious young pretenders at the town hall to establish themselves as credible alternatives.

Lueger could never be usurped. A political challenge was out of the question.

Always someone in the way…

The pundit writing in the
Tagblatt
had correctly identified one of Schmidt’s strengths. He was indeed a
resourceful
politician and rather good at finding solutions—often unconventional ones—to difficult and seemingly intractable problems. He drummed the table with his fingers and considered his options.

When the waiter came to collect Schmidt’s empty plate, the councillor ordered an
einspänner
coffee and a large
reisauflauf mit
äpfeln
. He read the flattering line about his resourcefulness and popularity again, and then picked up a copy of the
Illustrierte Kronen-Zeitung
.

Inside, he found a report on the discovery of a magical laboratory above a synagogue in Leopoldstadt. The article was accompanied by an illustration of a Jewish magus—a kabbalist—conducting rites in a room filled with the trappings of alchemy and astrology. The magus was dressed in long ceremonial robes embroidered with the Star of David. He was standing in a pentacle, his hands raised as if he were commanding some supernatural being to appear. His features were executed crudely in an unflattering caricature: thick eyebrows, coiled sideburns, a massive nose, and a flowing black beard. On his head the magus wore an oversize beaver hat.

Schmidt glanced through the article.

Alois Gasse… locked room…

A superstitious race…

Ritualistic practices… common among Jews
.

The waiter returned and deposited the contents of his silver tray onto the table: a black coffee, served in a tall glass and topped with whipped cream, and a steaming slab of rice soufflé, sitting in a wide, deep red pool of raspberry syrup. Schmidt became curiously absorbed by his pudding.

“Uncle?”

Schmidt looked up, surprised to see his nephew standing next to him. The councillor had been mesmerized by the redness of the syrup, and a chain of associations had formed in his mind:
raspberry syrup, blood, blood libel…

“Ah,” said Schmidt. “Fabian!” He tapped the open newspaper and pretended he had been looking at the illustration rather than at his
reisauflauf
. “Have you seen this?”

Fabian sat down next to his uncle and started to read the article.

“I don’t understand,” said the councillor’s nephew. “What does it mean?”

“What does it mean?” Schmidt chuckled. “A busy afternoon, that’s what it means. A lot more could be made of this.” Fabian returned a puzzled stare. “Oh, never mind. How’s your friend Edlinger? Did he get on with Professor Hollar?”